Twenty
by IronyRocks
Summary: Post-s8 speculative fic. There are many ways the day after can go. This might be one of them. Jack/Renee


**Title:** Twenty  
**Fandom:** 24  
**Pairing/Characters:** Renee Walker/Jack Bauer  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG-13  
**Summary:** There are many ways the day _after_ can go. This might be one of them.  
**Spoilers:** Up till 8.07 (10:00 PM - 11:00 PM), then likely it'll go AU like whoa.  
**Disclaimer:** _24_ does not belong to me.  
**Author's note:** 6k length, beta'd by **ed_84**. This is speculative fic around the events that could transpire after Day 8. I've made a bunch of assumptions that are _not_ based on any spoilers whatsoever. It's just a story that deals with the emotional aftermath of Day 8, with emphasis on Renee and Jack's relationship. Also, I may or may not already be writing the sequel to this.

* * *

It's just after sunset the following day when they reach Jack's apartment.

Well, it's _Kim's_ apartment, apparently, but Jack has a key and nobody else is using it for another two weeks until the lease is up. Awkwardly, because Renee isn't certain her coming here was the best idea, she hesitates to enter after him. Despite everything, she isn't sure of her footing with Jack because they never had time to stop and define it. Not with a thousand other things demanding their attention.

The apartment is large, well furnished in shades of greens and whites, and it's warm and inviting from the moment they cross the threshold. It feels like somebody lives here, calls it home and _means_ it – unlike her place, which can only laughingly be called a livable space by her landlord.

"You can put your stuff over there," Jack motions, and when she doesn't make a move to pass the foyer, he beckons her again. "Everybody's gone, so the place is empty and quiet."

Renee sees a stuffed-animal on the corner chair, and she vaguely recalls – although she can't remember when she first learned the tidbit – he's a grandfather. _Jack Bauer, a grandfather._ It doesn't match with the image she's seen of him, not after the last forty-eight hours. Yesterday they'd found him tortured and bruised within an inch of his life, but then within the hour had been chasing down another suspect through a blind alley. She's seen him come back from the dead, wrestle with demons both personal and professional, and not once – not _once_ – has he ever flinched.

But she's never seen the side of him as a grandfather, and for a brief second she's not sure she can picture it.

"Renee," he urges in a soft voice, like he doesn't want to spook her. She thinks briefly that maybe she just doesn't have enough imagination left. He'd be a great grandfather. "You all right?"

That is, at least, the seventeenth time he's asked her that since they reunited. (She started keeping a tally in her head at some point. Some of those times were legitimate, though. You end up facedown after an explosion, your partner is allowed to ask you if you're all right.) Renee sets her jaw, nods and walks past him into the living room, setting down her bag near the wall. Two days nonstop, three including the insomnia that she refuses to count from _before_. They've been running on bad coffee and sheer determination, but CTU has finally given them some time off to go home.

Except, of course, Renee doesn't have a home to go to.

She isn't going to break down again. She isn't going to fall apart. Jack's done enough to pick up the pieces, and she isn't weak – she doesn't need someone to have to take care of her.

"Nice place," she comments, simply to fill the silence.

Isn't that what polite people do in a civilized society? Compliment the décor.

Jack drops his keys on the corner table. "C'mon. I'll give you the dime tour."

* * *

She takes a shower in the guest bathroom – which, she realizes quickly, is adjoined to Jack's bedroom.

She doesn't know where he cleans up. Maybe Kim's master bathroom? In either case, he tells her not to rush, and Renee plans on taking up the offer. A day of chaos, followed by a day of debriefing – she can't even remember what a nice shower feels like. She gets the water going, scorching so hot that when she tests it with her fingers the heat knocks her hand back. She spins the cold tap just a little, just enough to ensure she doesn't scald herself on top of everything else. When she steps inside the tub, it's not more than a minute before she suddenly remembers; she hasn't had a shower since –_Come here,_ Vladimir called.

She closes her eyes and fights back a wave of sickness, trying not to think about it. But the first quiet sob has already broken free. Standing there under the stream of water, she tries to stem the blinding upsurge of emotion. A cloud of mist and steam rises, and Renee braces her forehead against the cool tiles. She reaches for the soap, lathering it up in her hands, trying to rinse her body clean but all she can think about is Vladimir and his goddamn hands all over her body. Her throat constricts, turning raw.

_Come here, Renee!_

She abruptly drags the curtain aside and breaks for the toilet, throwing up. The shower water gets everywhere – on the tiles, on the floor, across the walls. She doesn't notice, too busy heaving over rim of the toilet. Afterwards, she wipes her chin clean and there's loud knocking at the door. Jack – calling, concerned and urgent. His voice brings her back to reality, and she flushes the toilet and collapses back against the wall.

Jack yells through the door, "Renee, are you all right?"

That's eighteen.

"I'm fine," she chokes out, before he can break down the door. (She knows that's a legitimate option.) "Just… just give me a moment. I'm fine, Jack!"

_I'm fine,_ she insists, _I'm fine._

If she says it enough, maybe it'll come true?

* * *

She knows he cares, probably more than he should. She knows he'll never hurt her, which is more than she can say about herself. She knows he's been there, right where she stands now, and he's come out the other side. If anyone has the right to judge Renee, it's a man that's been in her shoes, but Jack doesn't precisely for that same reason.

Thankfully, Jack isn't at the door when she finally emerges from the bathroom, after having showered twice and rinsed with mouthwash three times. Renee doesn't know how Jack knows when to push, and when to step back, but he's been uncannily good at reading her mood when she can't even predict it herself.

His bedroom is mostly bare. On his mattress, he's set out a blow dryer for her that she can guess is obviously Kim's. Her eyes skim over it quickly before she surveys the room. She takes her time getting dressed. She blow-dries her hair straight and applies a touch of make-up –- just blush, just enough to give her pallid skin some color. She doesn't bother with anything else, and quickly dons on some slim jeans and a black tee.

There are only a few personal belongings on his nightstand: a watch, a notepad, his cell phone, a picture of Kim and his granddaughter, Teri. When she opens the second drawer, she finds a spare 9mm, with a loose magazine clip at the side and the chamber empty. Out of instinct, she slams the clip in and sets it on the bed for easy reach.

Renee realizes that she should feel like she's snooping, or trespassing into some inner sanctum that holds insight into the mind of Jack Bauer. But it's just a bedroom, simple and bare. There is nothing telling about it, and she's left feeling a little bereft. He knows so much about her, scarily enough. She feels sometimes that she still doesn't know a damn thing about him.

Before she leaves, the 9mm gets tucked under her waistband, quickly covered up by the folds of her shirt.

She finds Jack in the kitchen, getting a late dinner ready. His hair looks a bit damp around the edges, still drying. He's changed into khakis and a dark green pullover sweater, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The tattoos on his forearm attract her eyes.

"Chicken all right?" he asks, when he spots her.

The domesticity of Jack Bauer cooking her dinner throws Renee for a moment, so she simply nods. He goes back to cutting the chicken into smaller pieces, and she watches him silently for a beat. When she goes to reach for a glass in the upper cabinet and he brushes past her to grab something else, he smells like soap and some faint aftershave.

Something warm tightens low in her belly, but Renee does her best to ignore it. Her mind is screwed up enough, but even in this state it's impossible to deny the attraction she feels towards Jack – or that it's reciprocated. She just doesn't know what to do about it, or if she should do anything about it at all.

She looks for a distraction instead. "I didn't know you cooked."

"Self-defense," Jack explains, grabbing a small pot from under the counter and setting it on the stove. He ignites the gas in one burner and starts gathering ingredients together from the cupboard. "I've been on my own for a while," he explains. "You gotta learn to manage."

She used to cook, too. Back, before. She can't remember the last time she cared enough to bother, though. Cooking for one seemed to be more trouble than it was worth.

"Need any help?"

He gives it some consideration, before he offers, "Get the rice going?"

She nods, looking around the kitchen before she locates what she's looking for. They work together seamlessly, side-by-side, maneuvering around each other in a routine that feels weirdly natural. They use that same intuition that made them such a reckoning force in the field, but now it's transitioned smoothly into something else. Comfortable silence reigns for a while.

Her mind is momentarily upended again when she sees him slice the chicken in half, the knife moving easily across the cutting board. She has a sudden flashback to Vladimir holding her hands in his, using it to force her to cut the bread just the way he liked it. _That son of a bitch._ She doesn't remember stabbing him with that same knife, though. Not really. It's distant and foggy and she can't even remember the moments leading up to it.

She remembers stabbing Jack, though. Remembers snapping back to reality at _just_ that moment, the second stretching with vivid horror that makes her want to throw up all over again. Jesus. An inch to the right or left, and she would have killed him. Now he's cooking her dinner.

Jack half-turns towards her, but her eyes are glued on the knife in his hands, on the cutting board, and in the silence that follows, she knows he's figuring out _exactly_ where her mind has drifted.

She turns away to set the table by herself, grabbing spoons and forks, setting glasses, and though she wants something heavier than water with her food, she doesn't think wine is appropriate and hard liquor is too much. Too soon. She doesn't want to get drunk if she can avoid it. She settles for soda, which she finds in abundance in the back of his fridge.

When they sit down to eat, the silence has gone from comfortable to unpleasantly long, and she has no idea how to start a conversation. What do they talk about? President Taylor's aborted non-proliferation treaty? Dana Wash's criminal charges? Hastings' upcoming funeral? Since they've reunited, they've taken a hammer to Kamistani rebels and the Russian mafia. All in a day's work.

She looks across the table at him. The room is dimly lit, and in other circumstances it could have been considered a romantic setting, just the two of them for a quiet dinner. But the horror of everything that's happened to them is like the rank smell of a corpse, and no flavor of easy domesticity will ever cover that up.

She tries or… _wants_ to try, but it's worse than pulling teeth with pliers. (Don't ask her how she knows that.) Eventually she gives up, resting elbows on the table in a manner that would have left her mother cringing, god rest her soul.

"Wanna talk about the weather?" she asks sardonically, breaking the silence.

"Sure," Jack volleys back easily, with an upturn of his lips, "It's a little cold for my tastes."

"You're from California," she replies, then prods her chicken with a fork absently. She isn't that hungry. "It takes a while to get used to east coast weather."

"I've had worse."

There's a deafening pause. Five seconds on small talk – that had to be a record for them.

"How is Chloe doing?"

"Better," Jack returns, and the smile falls from his lips, serious again. "I spoke to her earlier today. It was just a minor concussion and some second degree burns. She was lucky, though. The explosion at CTU could have been worse, with a lot more casualties."

She vaguely recalls hearing about several such occurrences at the L.A. branch of CTU. Years of FBI training haven't gone to waste, because it isn't more than a second before Renee can dredge up the details of one such occasion. The Dawn Brigade terrorist group broke into CTU seven years ago, attacking with Sentox nerve gas. A lot of people died that day, including some that had sacrificed themselves to save others.

Jack had been there – and if Renee remembered correctly, so had Kim.

Before, when she said she felt like she didn't know Jack at all sometimes? She takes that back. When she remembers things like this, she suddenly feels like Jack is the only person in the entire world that she understands. She can imagine with horrifying clarity what that day and others like it have done to him. She's amazed that he's still standing, and it's perhaps this only thought that makes her think she might have a chance too.

Renee sets her fork down, hands clasped in front of her. "How do you do it? How do you pick up the pieces? We're sitting here eating dinner like everything's normal, but we averted a small Armageddon yesterday. How do you act normal after that?"

How has he done it so many times before?

"I don't, and I never have," Jack replies bluntly. "Nothing feels normal. I'm still half-wired right now and expecting CTU to call me in at any second. But we don't get that many moments of peace and quiet, and I plan on taking full advantage of them while they're there. Believe it or not, the day after is when you start healing."

Renee shakes her head in disgust and denial, then gets up from the chair, goes to the sink and pitches the soda from her glass down the drain. She opens the fridge, then rummages through the bins.

"Is there beer, or light beer or, fuck, something in this place that a two year old can't drink?"

She doubts it, though; Kim doesn't strike her as the type to leave hard liquor lying around the place. When she turns, she surprised to find Jack opening an upper cabinet and reaching behind several items before he removes a bottle of clear liquid from some obscure place in the back. There's no label on the bottle, and she wonders if Kim even knew Jack had this hidden at her place. He grabs two shot glasses from another cupboard and sets them on the table.

The rest of dinner goes forgotten, left cooling and untouched.

* * *

The vodka is harsher than she's used to, and she's used to the toughest brands. The Russian brands. It burns the back of her throat, but she barely flinches, matching shot for shot with Jack. She's pretty sure this isn't anything a therapist has recommended him as prudent ways to handle post-traumatic stress – assuming Jack's ever been to a therapist, and she's damn sure he _hasn't._ Renee isn't stupid enough to believe that alcohol is the answer to anything but more problems, but right now, she can't give a shit.

So, there they sit, on the hardwood floors of his living room, with their backs against the wall, shoulders brushing. Throughout the last two days, she's been struck by how close in proximity he constantly is with her. How, ever since she'd broken down in front of him in that backroom (blood on her hands, Vladimir's body on the ground, a hole in Jack's stomach that _she_ had put there), he'd been reaching for her more and more.

There was this one moment where he'd literally covered her body with his own to shield her from an explosive blast, and Renee can still recall vividly the way his body felt over hers, the weight of him on top of her – in a way that, thankfully, she can't recall of Vladimir.

It should make her feel vulnerable, but instead she finds herself craving the contact more and more, the reassurance that someone still cares, could still touch her without flinching away in disgust – it's nearly choking with relief.

"Why are you doing this?"

The words are out, and it isn't until a full two seconds later that Renee realizes that she's said them.

Jack rests his head back against the wall, then slants her a look. "You know why. I've been where you've been. You don't deserve to go through this alone."

Knowing that and _knowing_ that are two different things. She doesn't feel she deserves his help, or whatever the hell this is between them. Renee doesn't feel worthy of it. Her life has been just such an unfathomable mess, and she feels nothing but shame. Even after her actions yesterday, which were arguably responsible for helping to avert an international disaster. It doesn't make up for past sins.

If Larry could see what had become of her, he'd turn over in his grave.

The thought causes her to blink back unexpected tears.

"It's going to be hard," Jack tells her, hefting the bottle in his hand. He pours them another shot each. "I'm not going to lie. This feeling doesn't go away, not overnight. Maybe it'll always be there? You've proven yourself to everybody else—"

"Let me guess," Renee cuts in, slamming back the shot. She wipes her mouth clean on the back of her sleeve. "Your biggest critic is always the one in your head?"

He gives her a sobering look. "When my… when Teri died, I spent years afterwards caught up in guilt and recrimination. I couldn't go one day without the urge to…"

Her eyes prickle with tears, with understanding, because he doesn't even need to finish the sentence and she knows what he means. The scars on her wrists prove it. It isn't fair that he handled that alone. She has him, and he had no one – _no one_. Jesus. She sets the glass down on the floor beside them and stares at Jack.

"Did you ever…" she begins, faltering only for a beat. "Did you ever try?"

He snaps his gaze away, staring at the far wall in front of them. "I thought about it. Loaded my weapon a couple of times. Just couldn't pull the trigger. I needed a _reason_ to die. Not an excuse."

There's a long stretch of silence where the shadows do horrible things to his profile, and suddenly she's staring at a man with so many ghosts in his life, Renee can hardly even comprehend it. She reaches out to grasp his hand, and he looks startled for a beat, like he's only expecting to offer comfort, not accept it. But he went through hell yesterday right alongside her. Why doesn't he think he's worthy of solace? A part of her aches because of that, especially when she remembers how he always soldiers on, even when there's nothing left for himself.

"You don't have to be alone, either," Renee tells him, and _means_ it. "Not anymore."

His fingers curl possessively around hers, and she leans towards him because he's so warm. She knows the haze of alcohol is affecting her judgment, but it'd be cowardly to blame this moment on that. They're not sober, but they're not drunk either. She thinks they're going to kiss, lips parted and inches away, so close she can feel his breath on her mouth.

But then he pulls abruptly away before anything can happen. He gets to his feet and crosses the room, setting the half-empty bottle on the countertop. His back is to her, all stiff and rigid, and Renee is left wondering if she'd misread the moment, made him uncomfortable.

But she's never misread a man before, not even at her worst.

And especially not Jack.

"You've been through a lot," he explains, and it takes a moment for her to get it.

The sharp reminder of the last time a man had kissed her is like salt on an open wound that she _just_ forgot about. It stings. She recoils, feeling her skin crawl, and even though the impulse to kiss Jack has died a quick death, she's left feeling raw and exposed like she's huddled in front of him, naked and ashamed.

Jack turns around, his voice soft, too damn understanding. "You don't need any more pressure, Renee. I'm here as a friend."

She pauses, rising to her feet to issue a challenge. "And what if I want more?"

He shakes his head. "I don't think you know what you want right now."

That pisses her off. "Don't patronize me, Jack."

"I'm not. I'm just looking out for you."

"You don't have to protect me from everything," she says, a little irately. "I'm not a little girl."

"I never said you were—"

"Really? Then stop acting like you're my personal savior—"

"I'm acting like your friend," he cuts in forcefully, and his voice is strained, like he's trying – and god, she knows he is. "I'm acting like your _friend_."

Her first instinct is to get in his face, push him because no one – _no one_ – tells Renee what to do. She may not be in the best place right now, but she still knows what she _wants_, if not also what she needs. Yes, it was a little more than 24 hours ago that she was sobbing mess, nearly suicidal, but a lot can happen in a day and she's changed. It isn't a 180. She doesn't claim she's cured. Things don't work like that. But she isn't the same woman from yesterday, either. She can't explain it, but it's true.

Which is why, instead of pushing Jack like every instinct in her body is screaming at her to do, she backs off.

Renee breaks eye contact with him, and steps away, retrieving her empty shot glass from the floor. She's had too much to drink (or not nearly enough). She sets the empty glass next to the bottle, then looks up at Jack. Once again, he's so close by that she can smell the aftershave on him. She would just need to reach across and press her lips against his, the action slight and yet so enticing.

"I'm going to call it a night," she announces, instead.

Jack nods. "You can take my room. I'll crash on the couch."

"Why—"

"Trust me, I'll be fine."

She doesn't argue with him, because she's learned arguing with Jack almost never gets her anywhere. Her eyes flicker again to his lips. She waits a beat, searching for something to say, but then turns away and walks down the darkened corridor without a word. When she reaches his bedroom, she flips the light on and shucks her shoes with an elegance and coordination that forces several tries, then crawls onto the mattress. She's been running on fumes for longer than she can remember, and the heavy lull of alcohol should help her get to sleep easy, but she doesn't really expect anything to be easy tonight.

When she pulls the covers over her, she takes in a breath, the smell of Jack coming in with it. It's subtle, but there, lingering on her bed sheets and she wonders when exactly she imprinted his scent in her mind. She knows it so well. Probably better than her own.

She places the gun under her pillow.

* * *

Her dreams are far from pleasant.

_She's on the steps of the United Nations headquarters when it starts; far enough away to survive the blast radius, but close enough to see the mushroom cloud spreading over the horizon at a far distance. The A-bomb is big enough to be seen from two hundred miles away – Washington D.C. Then the blast spreads like a storm and suddenly everything is ablaze. Houses, buildings, the Statue of Liberty engulfed like some tower of fire, destroyed in smolder and ash._

_She sees Jack swallowed whole in a field of flames, screaming and calling for her, and she can't reach him – never could. She's failed again, and everything burns because of it._

Renee wakes with a start, choking on a gasp, sucking in precious oxygen like someone had been holding her under water. She's covered in a sheen of cold sweat, bed sheets wrapped around her torso, and it's a painful few seconds before she remembers where she is, what's going on. Nightmares are a common theme in her life, but the first few seconds are always disorienting, and she wipes damp-sweat hair out of her eyes.

She decides she doesn't need the sleep after that.

For the next few hours, she lays in utter darkness, counting the minutes until sunrise. Things always look better by daylight.

Which is why she's wide-awake enough to hear Jack tossing and turning in the next room over. The noise draws her out of bed, and when she finds him on the couch, it's obvious she isn't the only one suffering from nightmares tonight. He's seems lost to the thick of a bad dream, murmuring words she can't quite make out. The blanket over him is halfway off, and he's shirtless with only a small square white bandage covering the knife wound on his lower left abdomen. She thinks she hears her name in his mutterings somewhere, but that might just be her imagination – or wishful thinking, but then again, she's never been the type of girl that's wished to be the object of a man's _nightmare_.

She settles against the edge of the sofa, shaking his shoulders. "Jack. Jack, wake up," she urges, then more forcefully when he doesn't respond. "Jack, wake up! You're having a nightmare."

"Teri," he calls in a broken voice, and her throat constricts.

She shakes his shoulder harder. "Jack!"

He bolts up – and she should have expected it, God, she should have known – but he has her in a chokehold before she even realizes it. His arm is strong, vice-like around her throat, and he has her pinned back against his chest. Her eyes are already watering before Jack finally realizes what he's doing – who's in his hold. He immediately releases her and Renee drops to her knees, a hand flying to cover the sore muscles of her neck, choking on the first inhale.

His voice comes in rushed, haunted, "Christ, Renee, I'm sorry. I didn't—"

"It's okay," she chokes out, then grabs his hand to calm him down. It actually – perversely – makes her feel a little better, to be able to sooth him for once instead of the other way around. "It's okay."

"No, no, it's not," he insists, angrily. "Are you all right?"

"That's nineteen," she grits out, under her breath.

Jack's concern is replaced momentarily with confusion. "What?"

She shakes her head, ducking the question. "I'll live. I'm fine."

He guides her to the couch, his own demons forgotten in an instant. There's a glass of water resting on the corner table, and he grabs it and hands it to her so she can down a few gulps. _Jesus, he has a grip on him._ She's abruptly caught on the thought of how easily he could have snapped her neck in two if he hadn't snapped back to reality.

After a beat, she looks up to find him staring at her, and she doesn't need his guilt. "Guess that makes us even, huh?"

He looks confused, and it isn't until that second that she looks down and realizes his white bandages have turned pink.

Shit. He's opened his wound – again.

"It's nothing," he tells her.

She doesn't buy that for one second.

Two minutes later, she's re-bandaging his wound again, putting pressure on the spot to stem the bleeding. He's sitting on the sofa with her crouched in front of him, and the room is mostly dark and only lit by the hallway light at the end of the corridor. She prefers the darkness, glancing once to a nearby clock to confirm it isn't even past four in the morning yet. Given the last few days, it's ridiculous that either one of them is still up at this hour.

"We're some pair," she mutters under her breath, without even meaning to.

He chokes on a laugh, and she looks up, trying to remember the last time she'd ever seen Jack smile or laugh. She wonders if she's _ever_ seen Jack smile or laugh, then realizes they've never really been around each other during the good days. Only the bad ones – no, scratch that. The worst ones.

"Tell me about your granddaughter."

Jack looks confused. "What?"

"Your granddaughter," she repeats. "How old is she?"

There's a beat of silence. "Two."

It takes a bit of prodding, but eventually he starts talking about her and then it's like he can't stop. Teri is apparently a precocious two-year old that has her grandfather wrapped around her little pinky, and Renee wonders if Jack even realizes it. His voice changes when he talks about her, losing that gravely-effect that he sometimes gets, like he's talked himself hoarse. Instead, there's life in his tone, an affection that makes her wish she'd known Jack from a lifetime ago, before he'd lost so much. He was probably so different back then.

"You have any family?"

She shakes her head. "A distant uncle, but no one else."

That's actually a lie. Renee has a younger sister, but they're estranged and she knows better than to bring it up. The way she's behaved the last year of her life has been the hardest on the people that have tried to help, and her sister is one of those casualties.

"Family's important," Jack says, and she internally pauses, wondering just how _close_ of an eye he'd been keeping on her life these last few months. If he already knows about her sister or not? "Family can forgive a lot of things."

It goes without saying, but Renee can hear Kim's name ringing clear as church bells.

She grabs the wad of used bandages, crumpling it up in her hand and tossing it towards the dustbin. It neatly falls in, and she presses a hand to his knee, intending to rise up, but at the last second, she stops, still crouched in front of him. The moment stretches, and Renee impulsively decides – damn everything else.

She reaches up and just kisses him.

Carefully at first, lips pressed against lips, too aware of everything between them, past and present. But then his hand is on the back of her neck, fingers pressing into her nape, and the careful kiss becomes deep and _long_. It lingers, almost bittersweet, and she's never had a first kiss like this before.

Whatever his earlier reservations were, she can feel hints of it return when they break. Still, he isn't fighting this anymore, not really, and a part of Renee unclenches, a part that she hadn't even known was knotted up inside. Jack rests his forehead against hers, and she wonders if any of this will ever be normal. She's spent _days_ with this man at her side. This is their first kiss, and already he matters more than so many other men in her life, some she's bedded, others she's loved, and a few she'd spent _years_ with.

"C'mon," she urges, threading her fingers through his and tugging him up. "Come to bed, old man. The sofa isn't a place for a grandfather to sleep."

He snorts a brief laugh, and lets her tug him back to the bedroom.

Nothing happens, of course. They're both too exhausted, and even without the mutual bruises and flesh wounds, Renee isn't sure she wants to tests any physical boundaries today. With the way her luck was going, she'd have a flashback to Vladimir at the worst possible moment, and wouldn't that just triple her upcoming therapy sessions? So, fully clothed, they spoon together on his bed with the covers underneath them.

She's suddenly drowsy, but fights the pull of slumber. When he wraps an arm around her waist and runs the pads of his fingers across the expanse of her stomach, it soothes her, almost as much as she suspects it soothes him. Blades of light filter in through the side window, and Renee releases a soft breath.

It isn't like she hasn't thought about the end before – about this aftermath.

Actually, the last year of her life, she thought there would be no aftermath. She always figured it'd come down to dying in the midst of violence – the worst way she can imagine is on her knees with a bullet to the back of her head. She thought she had been prepared to die, to let things finally end. If somebody would have told her forty-eight hours ago that she'd find salvation in the midst of a hunt for weapons grade uranium, Russian mobsters, and a piece of shit like Vladimir Laitanan – she would have told them to go to hell.

But she hadn't counted on one thing: Jack.

"Hey," he whispers, when she stares off into the distance. "You all right?"

_Twenty._

She tilts her head aside. "I will be," she says, and this time, she might actually mean it.


End file.
